


Step, Step, Dance!

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Dancing, Derogatory Language, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, F/M, Gen, Homeless Network, Homeless Sherlock (Sort of), Insults, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Multi, Sherlock Dances, Sherlock Likes to Dance, Street Dancing, Teenage Harry, Teenlock, Underage Drug Use, Writing Dancing is hard, teenage John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4320468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow me. Run with me. Jump with me. Dance with me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Running in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to music and Sherlock came dancing into my mind and I just couldn't stop my fingers from writing this. I don't know if it's been done before or anything, nor do I know where I want to take it or how long it will take me to write it (writing dancing and making it interesting each time is hard).
> 
> I made them teenagers because I imagined Sherlock dancing as a teen...
> 
> Also, if anyone has watched 'Step up' 2, 3 & 4, I'm taking inspiration from Moose; how Moose dances is basically how I imagine Sherlock dances sometimes (Also Moose has curly hair, so that helps).
> 
> ...And I know, I know, I should stop writing new things but this is how I roll! I am constantly writing; I switch between stories and write new ones, and go back and forth, over and over. I shan't post all my stories, but I do like sharing and getting feedback, so I may post a lot of them!  
> If you think I am getting too distracted with one and have neglected others, let me know! Feedback always seems to boost inspiration for whatever I get feedback on.

John paused on his way home and squinted through the drizzling rain, wiping mud and water from his brow as he stepped up to the fenced off field, his muddy rugby ball under one arm. In the distance he could see some teenagers running; three after one, one whom was looking frantically around before he spotted John and sprinting over with long legs and a mop of dark, damp, messy curls. He skidded into the chain-link fence and it bowed from his weight, putting the boy and John almost face to face, or rather, face to chin; the boy was lanky and tall, and looked up the moment he gripped the chains. John glanced up as well and then shook his head in disbelief, but the boy’s face tightened in determination and he started climbing up it, his pale skin jumping with the muscles of a swimmer or a runner. John watched as he pulled himself up with relative ease, his fingers straining and gripping tightly, long and lean and skilful.

“What are you doing?” John exclaimed before the three teenage boys that had been chasing got closer, throwing stones and insults with faces of thunder. John frowned and stepped back when one stone almost caught him on the cheek, and the boys became aware of him all at once, sneering and rushing to the fence. 

“What you looking at, faggot?” One jeered as another leaped to try and grab the curly haired boy’s ankle. “You friends with this freak or what?”

John glared in a sudden surge of rage and bounced his rugby ball off the boy’s face roughly, kicking the fence just as the curly haired boy made it over the top and jumped down to his side. The boy grabbed John’s wrist and pulled him, running off with him with a deep, rumbling laughter and a flash of a childlike grin that made John snort with amusement and pick up to run beside him; the rain hit their faces and bodies harder, pushing John’s rugby shirt to cling wetly to his body and making the ball slicker and more difficult to clutch onto. 

The curly haired boy hadn’t let go of his wrist and so directed John down an alley and over a small fence, around and through some winding paths behind some houses and then, amazingly, up onto the rooftops. John hesitated when the boy leaped over a gap, losing his grasp on John’s arm, and looked down with apprehension, his heart in his throat. The curly haired boy looked back at him with a beaming smirk and a lift of his eyebrows, gesturing with his hand; John stared at him and then glanced back at the echoing sound of the following teenagers as they got nearer and nearer to their location.

“Watson!” The boy shouted over the sound of the suddenly pouring rain, motioning with his hand again.

John frowned in shock and the boy rolled his eyes, jumping back over to John’s side and throwing a punch at the first teenager who popped his head up and made a grab for John. 

“Your shirt,” the curly haired boy growled in John’s ear, tugging him by its collar towards the gap again. “It has your name on it. Now, come on. Follow me. Jump with me.”

“What? No!” John exclaimed ducking when the boy motioned to and then kicking out, spinning around with the curly haired boy’s hand in his, almost in complete sync with him without any conscious thought.

“You live near,” The boy stated breathlessly, dodging another hit, his hand twisting and slipping around John’s hand, but not leaving it for longer than a second. “Where?”

John glanced between the teenagers at their back and the gap at their front, and grit his teeth, tightened his hold on the boy’s hand and with only one look at him, jumped across it with him by his side, losing hold of his rugby ball in the process. The curly haired boy didn’t let John mourn its sudden loss and dragged John across the roof and down a fire escape, through another alleyway, around a churchyard, and then down a winding street. 

Abruptly familiar with the layout, John dug his heels in and yanked the boy sideways, crossing the road with him and then jogging down and around uneven pavement, briskly walking up to his house and blinking rain from his eyes. His house keys jiggled in his wet fingers and he sniffed in frustration as they slipped, almost falling from his grip. He dragged the curly haired boy inside once he had the door unlocked, and shut it behind him, leaning against it tiredly.

They stood, dripping in the hallway, and John squinted up at the boy as he pushed his curls back slickly to his head with a deep exhale, his attention sharply shifting to the sudden appearance of John’s sister, who had shuffled to the top of the stairs, staring down at them. 

John looked over at her and then followed her gaze to where he still held the boy’s hand, and he fumbled to let go and step aside awkwardly, “Harry, um, hi. Are mum or dad home?”

“…No,” she mumbled, her mouth quirking as she arched one eyebrow and crossed her arms. “Who’s this?”

“Sherlock,” the boy answered before John could even open his mouth again. 

Harry blinked at the eccentric name as well as his accent, and glanced at John briefly, “Right…and you’re both dripping wet, out of breath, and holding hands because…?”

“Come off it,” John muttered, wiping his shoes and then toeing them off clumsily, putting them on a rack near the door. “Some jumped up chavs were chasing us, all right?”

Harry watched as Sherlock copied John and took off his shoes, putting them aside, and then wiping his face with the back of his hand, and she scoffed, “Yeah, right. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sherlock— And enjoy getting your new friend some dry clothes to wear, Johnny boy.”

John looked at Sherlock’s gangly limbs and soaked through clothes, and grimaced, nudging his arm, “Come on,” he told him, leading Sherlock up the stairs, glaring and prodding at Harry in passing, and collecting a pile of towels before taking Sherlock through to his room and then pulling his wet and muddy rugby shirt off, throwing it aside with a wet splat. 

Sherlock closed John’s door on a smirking and smug looking Harry and stepped over, looking around John’s bedroom with mild interest and rocking on his heels as John ruffled a towel through his short hair and down his chest. John eyed him and then threw him a towel, tilting his head with a grin when Sherlock caught it without looking and smiled at him. 

“Sherlock, eh? Is that your real name?” John asked, opening his wardrobe and sighing at the selection of clothes, knowing that none of them would fit his new, long-limbed friend.

“Yes,” Sherlock snorted, shaking the towel over his head. “Why? Does it seem too implausible?” 

“No,” John shrugged. “Just never heard of a name like it. It’s very…fancy.”

“Fancy?”

John reached for his dressing gown and sighed, “You know…posh. Unconventional. The type of name that fits rather well with your accent actually, now that I think about it—You’re not from around here, are you?”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look, “Obviously.” he replied sarcastically, picking at his sodden top and then sliding it off after John waved at him to do so. Sherlock’s torso was wiry and lean, rippling with muscles and flushed pink from the warmth of John’s room.

“What exactly did you do to piss them off anyway?” John asked as he turned and held up his dressing gown as Sherlock faced him, looking amused at the gown and then grinning at John. “What? It’s all I have. You can’t sit around in wet clothes…so…here, put it on. Take the rest off and we’ll put them on the radiator, or the airing cupboard.” 

Sherlock took it from him gratefully but still immensely tickled, and then shrugged, “I merely pointed out that the mother of one of them was sleeping with the father’s of the others, regularly, and for money,” he drawled arrogantly, unbuckling his jeans as he spoke. “They took offence.”

“No wonder! Why’d you say that?” John laughed.

“Because it’s true,” Sherlock replied with a chuckle. “And because they were annoying me. Immeasurably—Should I take all my clothes off?”

John blinked and scratched the back of his neck uneasily, “Um. You…mean your pants? I don’t know…are they…just as bad as your clothes?”

Sherlock nodded, “Very. I’d been in that God forsaken rain for a while before I ran into you,” he told him, pressing his lips together when he regarded John’s discomfort. “I can keep them on if you’d rather—?”

“No, no, I couldn’t make you do that…” John mumbled, looking sadly at his gown and deciding whether or not it would be rude to offer to let Sherlock keep it afterwards.

Sherlock shrugged and without a hint of self-confidence dropped his jeans and underwear without hesitation, stepping out of them with a look of disgust, and then pulling off his socks, standing naked next to John’s bed without shame. John span around with a curse and covered his eyes, dropping his head in embarrassment.

“You get naked, frequently, in a changing room full of other naked boys, but it’s my nakedness that embarrasses you?” Sherlock huffed from behind him. “Really? Am I that different?”

“No,” John retorted, folding his arms and frowning in irritation. “Just…just hurry up and put the robe on, will you?”

“…Is it because of your sister?”

John turned around before he could stop himself and stared at Sherlock in confusion, “What?”

“She’s gay,” Sherlock clarified, still naked but reaching for the robe as he spoke, swinging it on and tying it closed over his body. 

“Yes? And? What has that got to do with anything?” John exclaimed. 

Sherlock shied back slightly and twisted his mouth, “Ah, it’s a touchy subject—Forget I said anything.”

John stepped over to him, “No. No, I won’t, what does my sister’s sexuality have to do with me not wanting to see your pale arse?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, sighing roughly through his nose and lifting his hands in a diplomatic gesture. “It’s just that you are very defensive. You immediately dropped my hand and stepped away; you find it suddenly awkward to be near me if I’m naked or undressing; and you have a very physical and immediate response to anything relating to homosexuality. I assumed it had something to do with your sister, with you having to stick up for her and protect her, as well as shoot down any and all implications that you’re the same—even if you find nothing wrong with it, I can understand your frustrations.”

“Can you,” John grunted, eyeing him up and then deflating a little, grabbing the sash to the dressing gown and tying it properly, almost on instinct. “How old are you?”

Sherlock frowned but answered, “Seventeen.”

“Really? A few years younger than me…You seem older,” John mumbled in surprise, happy with the sudden change of subject. “If you’re not from around here…what are you doing here?”

“I’ve “run away” from home, if you must know,” Sherlock told him. “Or rather, away from the dreadfully dull University that my family forced me into.”

John moved back to look Sherlock over with his hands on his hips, “So you’re here with nothing? No clothes, no food, no place to stay?”

Sherlock bent down for his jeans and pulled a heap of soggy money from his pockets, “I have enough to get by, I think. And I don’t mind sleeping on the streets—”

“You’re kidding?” John asked in shock, looking at the money in Sherlock’s pale palm, counting the crumpled, damp notes, and the few coins with a furrowed brow. “How’d you get this money?”

“Danced,” Sherlock replied.

“…I’m sorry, what?” 

“I danced,” Sherlock reiterated with a small smirk. 

John stared at him for a long moment and then rubbed his face with one hand, “You…danced? As in, you danced for money? Street dancing, I hope?”

Sherlock laughed heartily and John smiled at the sound, “Do I really look like a male stripper to you, John? Although…they do make a lot, and it’s not a bad profession, I’m surprised more men aren’t doing it in all honesty.”

John giggled and shook his head, “You can stay here for tonight; I’m sure it’ll be fine. Your clothes need to dry anyway and I really don’t think the rain will let up anytime soon so…” John said as he wiped a towel in his hair again, then down his arms, rubbing drying mud from his skin. “I’ll introduce you to my mum when she gets back. We’ve got a spare sleeping bag somewhere…”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said appreciatively with a soft smile and a crinkle of his eyes, tugging on the dressing gown. “For this too. I get the feeling you don’t want it back after?”

“God no,” John snorted.


	2. I'm Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next chapter! Not sure if it should shift into Johnlock or not...let me know?

The first thing John noticed upon waking was that he had his face pushed into a headful of hair and his arm around a thin, bare waist, one which led to a defined and muscled stomach and a naked pelvis. John pulled his arm back and pushed up to squint down at the lounging body of Sherlock with a sudden wince of embarrassment at his state of undress; at some point during the night the robe John had given him to wear had loosened and opened to expose the full length of Sherlock’s body to the room and John’s gaze, again. 

“Oi,” John grunted with his voice rough with sleep. “Sherlock, wake up and cover up—what are you even doing in my bed?”

Sherlock stirred and murmured grumpily, throwing an arm out to hit John upside the head, as he rolled onto his front. John grimaced and glared, then shoved Sherlock across the mattress, annoyed when Sherlock gripped the sheets and curled himself up in them, his naked skin rubbing into his favourite bedspread. 

“You better be out of my bed by the time I get back from the loo,” John muttered as he got up irritably and padded around his room with a yawn, checking on Sherlock’s clothes as he passed them. “Your clothes are dry. Get dressed. Right now. I mean it. Sherlock. Now.”

As he strolled from his bedroom to the toilet, John pondered about Sherlock, about his background, his parents, and why it was he really chose to run away from home. How had he gotten so far with so little money? Had he eaten enough? Drank enough? How had he slept? It had been raining for the last six days, and John didn’t want to know how many of those that Sherlock had spent huddled in a doorway somewhere.

John was also amazed and shocked at how quickly he trusted him, how quickly he came to like him; it almost felt like they had been friends for years. John had always found it a little hard to make friends, as apparently he had “trust issues”, issues he couldn’t seem to fully deal with no matter whom he spoke to about it, and so he felt almost sad that he wasn’t going to see Sherlock again, or his dressing gown for that matter, and he’d probably never use his bed sheets again. 

They had spent hours talking but John still knew almost nothing about Sherlock apart from what Sherlock chose to tell him, which was still little to nothing. Sherlock had run away from home but where that home was, John didn’t know; if he had to guess Sherlock had probably come from the south of England somewhere, maybe London, or someplace near. John knew that Sherlock had one other sibling, possibly an elder brother, and one that Sherlock immensely disliked or was jealous of, either way; the sibling rivalry was present with a vengeance. John also knew that Sherlock was extremely passionate about dancing, so passionate that whenever he talked about it his foot and leg shook with the need to move; of course this was not Sherlock’s only passion, John could tell that the boy was massively intelligent, and had astonished and awed John with his self-taught deduction skills.

John huffed with amusement and flushed the toilet, washing his hands and then brushing his teeth, looking at himself in the mirror afterwards to see the broad grin spreading across his face.

“Johnny?”

“Yeah, mum?” John called as he strolled out to the top of the stairs. “Yeah?”

“Your girlfriend is here, sweetie,” she smiled, noticing his state of undress with a frown and a wave of her hand. “Get dressed! It’s Eleven o’clock, you lazy sod!”

“Here? She…why is she—? Oh! Right…the cinemas, yeah, um, yeah, okay! Just…just tell her I’ll be right down!” John said, rushing back to his bedroom and yanking the wardrobe doors open, rummaging through his clothes frantically and muttering under his breath. “Shit…shit…how could I have forgotten? I set an alarm, I…I swear I set an—ah! This’ll do…wait, no…she doesn’t like this jumper…”

“Why?” Sherlock asked gutturally from behind him, sitting up with the sheets tumbling from where they had been wrapped around his head. “It’s a perfectly lovely jumper. What doesn’t she like about it?”

John jumped and glared over at him, “I told you to get out of the bed!” he muttered. “Listen, you have to get changed and go. I’m sorry to push you out so soon but I…but something’s come up.”

“Your girlfriend is here, I heard,” Sherlock said as he yawned and then blew a frizzy curl from his face. “I could just…stay here until you get back?”

“What?” John frowned, shaking his head and stepping towards the bed. “No. No, no, no, no. You can’t stay here, Sherlock. I…I wish you could, but I told my mum you’d just be staying the night. In fact, I’m pretty sure she thinks you’re gone already. You can’t stay here…and…and sleep in my bloody bed—why are you in my bed anyway? You have a “perfectly lovely” sleeping bag right here!”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked briefly. “I was cold.”

John arched his eyebrows and shifted his stance, “You were cold?”

“Yes. I was naked, in a sleeping bag, on the floor…I was cold,” Sherlock told him, with a smile and shrugging. “Body heat. Seemed like the simple solution.”

“Get out of my bed, Sherlock,” John huffed, turning back around to his wardrobe and wrenching a pair of jeans from a hanger, stepping into them quickly. “And get changed, for Christ’s sake.”

“Can I meet her?”

John glanced over his shoulder, “Meet who?—Oi, will you get out of my bed! How many more times?”

“Your girlfriend,” Sherlock clarified as he scooted to the edge of the mattress and shrugged out of John’s dressing gown while he reached for his clothes, pulling on his top first. 

“No,” John frowned, moving to his drawers and rummaging through his shirts and t-shirts agitatedly, throwing some over his shoulder and stubbing his toe as he turned back to his wardrobe.

“You don’t want me to meet her?” Sherlock asked in a sort of lazy drawl that instantly made John suspicious. Sherlock arched an eyebrow as he pulled up his underwear and stood up, flicking his curls from his eyes.

John eyed him with a narrowed gaze, “No…” he said slowly, walking over and pointing a finger at him. “Why do you look so smug?”

Sherlock reached out and pushed John’s finger aside, “Because she’s currently sneaking up the stairs to see you and will be here in three…two…one…” he murmured before he swept a hand to the bedroom door as it opened and a grinning girl stepped in and stopped dead. “Hello. I’m Sherlock, a friend of John’s. You must be his girlfriend…Sandra? Sandy? Sam?”

“Sophie,” she mumbled, blushing when Sherlock stepped forward in his underwear to shake her hand. 

“Right,” Sherlock nodded. “Knew it began with an S.”

John flushed and tugged Sherlock away by the back of his top, “Sorry, Soph, I…I’m just getting changed now…and Sherlock was just going.”

Sherlock smiled at her and turned to tug on his jeans, buckling them dextrously, “Shall I leave via the window?” he asked John casually.

“What?” 

“You said that your mother thought I’d left already?” Sherlock reminded him with look of innocence as Sophie arched her eyebrows. “I can climb out the window, it’s no bother. Not the first time.”

John felt his eye twitch and clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the look that Sophie was sending his way, “Sherlock…” he said warningly.

Sherlock pulled on his socks and then bit his lip, wriggling his toes, “Ah…but then…my shoes are down near the front door where I left them. Shall I go get them? I don’t want to get you into trouble with your parents…”

John adjusted his stance in exasperation and then stormed from his bedroom, quickly raced down the stairs, grabbed Sherlock’s trainers, and returned to throw them at him with a patronising smile.

“There, problem solved,” He muttered, crossing his arms and nodding towards his window in challenge. “Go on then.”

“John!” Sophie protested with a frown.

Sherlock grinned and slipped on his shoes, then opened the window, hopped up onto the sill and leaned out, the muscles in his arms cording strongly. John jerked to stop him with wide eyes and watched as Sherlock surveyed the distance to the ground quickly with a flicker of his eyes and jumped, landing in a perfect crouch and rolling to his feet. He turned and looked up at John, beamed, bowed, and then flipped backwards and ran off down the road with a jaunty wave and a wink.

“You’re insane!” John laughed and watched him go, following the bounce of his curls as he disappeared around a corner, doing a cartwheel at the last moment. John stepped back with a grin and shook his head with uncontrollable fondness for the boy he’d just met the day before.

“Who was he, John?” Sophie asked. “I thought I’d met all of your friends?”

“Well,” John sighed, glancing at her and motioning with his hand towards the open window. “You definitely have now.”

~~~

John didn’t see Sherlock again for three weeks and when he did, it was in the dead of night and at his bedroom window. Sherlock had somehow climbed up the side of his house and was clinging on to the bricks and tapping with his fingertips against the glass; he looked cold, out of breath, and slightly panicked, and so John rushed over and unlocked the window without a second thought.

“Sherlock,” John hissed in a low whisper as Sherlock half leaned in, dropped a backpack on John’s floor and scrambled in after it, leaving mud smears on the window frame in his haste. Sherlock was wearing different clothes from the last time John had seen him, and was bundled up in a blue jacket, dark navy hoodie, blue t-shirt, pale tracksuit bottoms, and white trainers.

“Shut the windows, close the curtains, and turn off the light!” Sherlock ordered breathlessly even as he turned on the spot to do the first two of orders himself. “Quickly!”

John frowned deeply but rushed over to switch off his lamp and close his laptop, “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

Sherlock ducked and peeked through the curtains slowly, “Good—glad the first words out of your mouth wasn’t “what did you do, Sherlock?” makes a change,” he muttered, still trying to regain his breath and yanking John up beside him when he stepped close enough. “My parents have found me—no idea how. Possibly because I made a mistake, somewhere, at some point…so stupid sometimes…”

“You’re hiding from your parents?” John asked with a sigh. “Sherlock, why don’t you just go back home with them? You can’t live out on the streets and dance for the rest of your life!”

“Why can’t I?” Sherlock glared, turning and almost knocking noses with John, before he went back to looking outside.

“Sherlock, look at yourself! You’re freezing, you’re probably starving, and…and it’s just not good for you,” John lectured, feeling awkwardly like his father. “Where do you even go? Where do you sleep? How do you eat? Hey—look at me a second… you look pale and haggard, Sherlock…have you been eating and drinking? Have you even been sleeping?”

Sherlock brushed his concern away and then crouched, dragging John down with him, when a sleek, black car turned down the street. They watched it tersely, Sherlock’s hot hand on John’s wrist, and John looked at the expensive car with a lift of his eyebrows; obviously Sherlock came from a family that was well off, something that didn’t exactly surprise John. The car slowed to a stop and Sherlock pressed his lips together as the window was rolled down; no one appeared but someone was clearly looking out of it. The car stayed in line with John’s driveway for another few minutes before the window went back up and it moved on, turning into the next street at a leisured and somewhat creepy pace.

“Can I stay here?” Sherlock asked him in the darkness of his room, his clothes smelling like the outside and sweat and smoke. “Just until my brother buggers off?”

“Have you been smoking? Do you smoke?” John asked in surprise, moving to open his laptop again for a little bit of light. Sherlock looked eerily pale in the blue glow and John shuffled closer with sudden interest in Sherlock’s pupils. “Are you fucking high?”

Sherlock smirked and shrugged, “So what if I am? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, for starters, it means I’m even more inclined to kick you to the bloody curb,” John hissed, gripping Sherlock by the chin strongly and turning his head to check his pupils reaction to the light. “What did you take?”

“Cocaine,” Sherlock replied, struggling from John’s grasp and narrowing his eyes in annoyance. “And yes, I smoke, though not all the time. I’d rather—”

“Cocaine? You’re seventeen,” John said angrily before he suddenly grabbed for Sherlock’s backpack, unzipping it with a furious yank. “Is it in here? Did you bring it with you?”

Sherlock lunged for it but John turned and grappled him, shoving him down on the floor, twisting his arms behind his back and then trapping them there with his knee as he fumbled for the sash of his dressing gown. Sherlock thrashed and grunted, straining strongly, but his run to John had tired him out, as well as the obvious lack of food and drink, and so John easily overpowered him and tied Sherlock’s wrists together violently. He rolled Sherlock over onto his back and Sherlock instantly lifted his hips and tried to wrap his legs around John’s shoulders, to strangle him, but John grabbed his thighs and forced them back down, sitting on them heavily and holding Sherlock down as he writhed and arched his head back into the floor with a loud thump.

The racket woke his parents and John and Sherlock both froze, breathing silently but heavily as they listened. John glanced over at his bedroom door, saw the slice of light as the hallway light was turned on and manhandled Sherlock half under his bed, grunting softly with effort. He then picked up Sherlock’s bag, shut his laptop, and leaped across his bed in a sprawl, stuffing the bag under his pillow to hide it just before his bedroom door was slowly opened. John closed his eyes and slowed his breathing as much as he could, pretending to be asleep and willing his mum to go back to bed.

When she finally closed his bedroom door and the hallway light of turned back off, John sat up, pulled Sherlock’s bag onto his lap and flicked on his bedside lamp to rummage through it irritably but carefully. He pulled out a phial of liquid cocaine and then found a syringe stored in a morocco leather case and glared at them heatedly, listening to Sherlock struggle under his bed. John stood up on the other side of the bed when Sherlock suddenly and fluidly got to his feet with his arms still tied; he stared at Sherlock silently and clutched the phial tighter when Sherlock glanced at it with a pursing of his mouth. 

“John—”

“No,” John interrupted, trying not to raise his voice. “I can’t believe your some…some druggy! Some addict! I thought you’d be smarter than that, Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s face abruptly twisted as he sneered, “You don’t know me! You know nothing about me!” he snarled, fighting to get his hands free violently and frantically, and then storming around the bed towards John when he failed to do so. “Give it back!”

“No,” John said shortly, knocking Sherlock back by his shoulder. “I won’t let you do this to yourself, Sherlock.” 

“Give. It. Back,” Sherlock growled. “Give it back, and untie me so I can go. It was a mistake to come back here—”

“No.” John repeated. “What was a mistake, Sherlock, is taking this stuff. Why do you think you need it? Huh? Why are you taking it? Do you know what this stuff does to your brain? Do you?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock hissed. “Next you’ll be lecturing me on smoking as well—”

“Is this why you ran away from home? Is it? Is this the real reason, Sherlock?” John asked, grabbing Sherlock when he roughly tried to get his hands untied and then pushing Sherlock down on the bed. “You’re not getting this back, Sherlock. Not while you stay here.”

“Then I won’t stay here,” Sherlock replied, struggling to sit up on the bed and panting with exhaustion.

“Oh, you’re staying,” John told him, reaching down to swipe his fingers through Sherlock’s greasy hair and to prod his gaunt cheeks. “If you don’t, you’ll end up dead in an alleyway somewhere.”

“As if you care,” Sherlock sneered savagely.

“Yeah, why would I care? I’m just your friend.”

Sherlock laughed shortly, “I don’t have friends. You’re not my friend. You barely know me—in fact, isn’t that what your girlfriend Sarah told you?”

John eyed him with an unimpressed expression, “Sophie,” he corrected, looking down at the phial and case thoughtfully. “And yeah, more or less, when I told her how we met...but I don’t care. You hear me? Let’s say we’re not friends then, that’s fine, brief friendship over—but I still won’t let you have this back. I still won’t let you damage yourself. Even you being a stranger to me now.”

Sherlock sighed and fell backwards in defeat, “I’m not an addict—it just helps. I get so bored. I get so terribly bored, John. I need something…”

John nodded and turned to open his bedroom door, “You don’t need this,” he told him quietly, tiptoeing out of the room towards the bathroom to tip it down the drain. When he moved back to his bedroom, Sherlock looked pained and angry, but he looked away from John and fidgeted with his bound arms with a wince. “When I untie you…you’re going to leave, aren’t you? You’re going to leave and just get some more…then I’m going to hear about you in the news. Hear how they found the body of a seventeen year old boy in a ditch…”

Sherlock watched as John threw down the empty phial and the syringe case and kicked it under his bed, “…No. I do need to stay here. I have…nowhere else. Nowhere I won’t be found, anyway,” he whispered hoarsely, looking faintly apologetic as he kicked off his trainers. “I won’t go…” 

Although John didn’t believe him he nodded and stepped over to untie him, “Get in the bed.”

“No sleeping bag this time?” Sherlock joked lightly, trying to lift the mood, and grimaced at John’s expression, nodding, shrugging out of his jacket and hoodie, and stuffing them inside his backpack along with his tracksuit bottoms.

John threw the bag into the corner of the room, powered down his laptop and shoved Sherlock to one side of the bed angrily, “In the morning, if you’re still here, we’re going to have a long talk,” he told him before he turned off his lamp and settled down for sleep that didn’t come until the sound of Sherlock’s deep breathing lolled and relaxed him.

~~~

Sherlock was still there when John woke to his alarm and he threw out an arm and turned it off with a grumble, rubbing his face and sitting up. Sherlock gazed blearily at him, looking sickly and emaciated, and John zeroed in on the needle marks in the soft fold of Sherlock’s left elbow with a deep scowl. He left Sherlock in his bed wordlessly and went to the toilet, gazing at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands and then brushed his teeth, glaring at the faint bags under his eyes and the lines of anger decorating his brow. Why was he so angry? Sherlock had been right, they weren’t friends, John had been stupid to think that they were after only one meeting; whether they had clicked or not, they were still strangers to one another. John didn’t know Sherlock, didn’t know him at all.

John got himself some breakfast with a tight smile at Harry and his mum, and sneaked a few more pieces of toast onto his plate before he returned to his room and held them out to Sherlock impatiently. Sherlock looked at them and only took them when John sat down on the bed and offered them again with a sigh and a soft nod.

“You need to eat,” John told him as he shared his cup of tea with Sherlock next and then stood up to pull out his rugby kit. “I’m playing with my friends for most of the day—you’re welcome to tag along. Or you can stay here. Or you can go…I don’t think I care much what you do now…”

“I’ll come with you,” Sherlock said coarsely as he stuffed toast into his mouth with frenzy. “I would like to go with you when you go back to University as well.”

“How did you know I—?” John started before he shook his head with a quirk of a smile. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t follow me to Uni.”

“I can,” Sherlock retorted, gulping down the tea and then getting to his feet. “And I might need to—my brother won’t stop his persistent hunt for me and so moving location would be perfect. You live in a dormitory don’t you?” 

John nodded and turned when Sherlock stepped closer, “So you’re using me for my generosity? Think just because I helped you twice already that I’ll just let you—” 

“I’m sorry about last night,” Sherlock said, scratching the inside of his elbow unconsciously. “I am. I just…you have no idea how long it took me to get that cocaine.”

John shoved him back with a glare, “I can’t believe you.”

“No, wait, that’s not…I didn’t mean…” Sherlock stumbled over his words and glared into the middle distance. “I need to be away from my family. I need to dance. I would…very much like your help and your…your friendship…if you’re willing to forgive me for what I said. I was—”

“High off your face? A fucking moron? A stubborn arsehole?” John suggested, waving a hand with a tight smile. “Take your pick, I have more—do you really think you can just show up after however long it’s been since I first met you, and expect me to just…just…”

Sherlock sighed and pushed back his greasy hair, “No. No, I don’t, but it was worth a try.”

John gripped his rugby shirt tightly and scowled at it for a bout of silence, wringing it in his hands before he spoke, “Do you play?”

“No,” Sherlock answered softly, eyeing the shirt and then smiling at John slightly. “I imagine you’re quite good at it?”

“Yeah,” John smirked, looking up at him. “And you’ll see that when we get there. I’ll introduce you to everyone and then you can cheer me on from the side-lines.”

“Won’t your girlfriend be there for that?”

“Don’t act dumb, it doesn’t suit you…you know she dumped me, I can tell by your haughty bloody voice,” John muttered, smacking Sherlock upside the head when he grinned and nodded. “Shut it. Smug bastard.”

“So I’m a stand-in for your girlfriend?” Sherlock teased. “I could come up with a little cheer for you? Make it rhyme and everything? Though I’d need pompoms…”

“I said, shut it,” John laughed, nudging him with a curling grin and then pushing him towards his backpack. “Get changed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels me!


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